Doctors And Nurses
by RobotRollCall
Summary: For all the years she's lived in New York, Amy has avoided that godforsaken graveyard-until the day she has to go, and Rory doesn't come home with her. In the weeks since then, she's been trying her best-really she has-but some days not falling to pieces is an awful lot of work. Then a letter from a stranger arrives in the mail, and it turns out to be exactly what she needed.


_I've always liked the idea of people in the Whoniverse being connected to each other, even if, as in this case, they're not aware of it. And since the Ponds (who I love ever so much) are stuck in the past, well there are lots of opportunities to run into past companions, aren't there?_

_ I've probably taken some liberties with the character of Grace-outside of the film, I don't know much about her, so if you happen to know more about her than I do and I've gotten some things wrong, please forgive me. I meant well._

_ As always, none of the characters are mine. I really, really wish they were, but they're not. Oh well._

* * *

It was a chilly winter evening, and Amy was in the kitchen making stew. It was a Friday, which meant Tony would be coming to dinner. He'd been hesitant about picking up their routine again, as this would be the first time since…but Amy had insisted, and he'd learned at a very early age that it was no good arguing with his mother.

There was a knock at the door and Amy poked her head into the sitting room. "Come in!"

"Evening, mum," Tony said as he entered the room. He held up a hand full of envelopes. "I grabbed your mail on the way up," he added.

"Thanks, love," Amy said. "And please don't knock before you come in—you haven't in forty-two years and there's no need to start now." Things had been a bit…awkward wasn't the right word, but everyone seemed to have gotten overly formal around her in the past couple of weeks. She understood why, of course, but she wished they wouldn't. It was just another reminder that things were different.

"Yes ma'am," Tony said with an apologetic smile. Instead of setting the mail down on the little table that sat by the door for just that purpose, Tony held the mail clamped between his lips as he shrugged out of his coat. Amy felt a twinge in her chest at the familiar gesture—Rory had always done that. She wondered if Tony was conscious of picking up his father's habits.

His coat now hanging by the door, Tony returned the mail to his hand and moved forward to kiss her on the cheek. "You doing alright?"

His tone wasn't as light as it should have been, but Amy smiled and patted his shoulder. "I'm okay," she assured him. "Come on into the kitchen. Dinner's nearly ready, and I can't find my glasses, so you can sort through the mail for me."

"Did you check on top of your head?" he asked with a mischievous smile.

"Cheeky monkey," Amy said, swatting him playfully across the back of the head. "First place I looked. Go on, then. Anything good?"

Tony tossed the stack of envelopes to the tabletop and flicked through them. "Not really. Some bills, some sort of packet from the attorney—"

"Leave that 'till after dinner," Amy said firmly.

"Oh, here's one that looks personal," Tony went on, picking up one of the envelopes and peering at the address. "D'you know anyone in San Francisco?"

Amy paused in her stirring of the stew. "San Francisco? I don't think so. It's not from River, is it? Her letters always come from strange places."

"No," Tony said. "I don't recognize the name."

"Hmm." Amy left the stew to simmer and sank down into a chair. "We've got a few minutes. Read it to me."

"It looks like it's on the long side," Tony said. His mother waved her hand imperiously, and he smiled and began to read.

"Dear Mrs. Williams," it read. "Let me begin by saying how sorry I am for the loss of your husband. You probably don't remember me—we only met once, and I was just a little girl at the time—Gracie, everyone called me then. I knew your husband quite well, though, and I was very fond of him, though it has been some years since I saw him last.

When I was little, my mother ran a small deli around the corner from the hospital where Mr. Williams worked. (He told me once that I was welcome to call him Rory and I was thoroughly scandalized—even now it makes me shudder to think what my mother would have said if I had dared to be so informal with an adult, particularly an older man like your husband.) If memory serves correctly, it would have been about 1972. I was nine years old at the time, and as school was out for the summer, most of my time was spent helping my mother in the restaurant. I was usually considered too young to be trusted with trays full of food, but we were busy that day, and my mother sent me out with a single plate to take to an older man sitting back by the window.

'Thank you,' he said, as I very carefully set his lunch down in front of him. He looked me up and down and smiled. 'Aren't you a little young to be a waitress?" he asked.

'Yeah,' I nodded. I fidgeted with the end of one of my pigtails before I remembered I wasn't supposed to do that. "I'm nine. I'm just helping my mom,' I added with a nod back towards the counter.

'Oh, you're Sylvia's daughter,' he said with a nod. "It's Gracie, right?' I must have looked surprised, because he smiled. 'She was telling me about you a little while ago and the project you were working on for your science fair.'

'You mean the poster of the human heart?' I asked. He nodded and I grinned. "I got an A on that.'

'Oh, well done,' he said, and he sounded like he really meant it.

I was encouraged to continue. 'Where are you from?' I asked—I knew it was probably an impertinent question, but he seemed nice. And I was curious about his accent.

'Where do you think I'm from?' he asked conspiratorially.

I considered. 'I don't know,' I said at last. 'Australia?'

He laughed. 'Not quite. I'm from England. I live here now, though.'

I was intrigued, but before I could ask any more questions, my mother called me back to work. When he left, I went to pick up his dishes and saw that he had left some money on the table. 'Wait!' I called, running after him and catching him at the door. 'You forgot your money,' I said, holding it out to him.

'That's for you,' he said with a smile.

'For me?'

He nodded. 'You were an excellent waitress,' he said sincerely. It was my first tip. I showed my mother, and she said maybe it was a sign I was old enough to start waiting tables. It was a very proud moment.

The next day, lunch time came around and I was waiting for him. 'Good morning, Mr. Williams,' I said. 'Can I get you a table?'

'Good morning, Gracie,' he said, smiling. 'You know, I don't remember telling you my name yesterday.'

'You didn't. I asked my mother,' I informed him. 'She said you would be a good person for me to start being a waitress with, because you're very patient. I'm not sure why that's important. I thought it might be because I'm slow at spelling things, but she said that wasn't it.'

'I'm sure I don't have any idea what she meant,' he said, amusement twinkling in his eyes as he tactfully neglected to explain it meant I talked too much.

I took his order, carefully laboring over my notepad to keep my letters neat. When his food was ready, I hurried it out to his table as carefully as I could. 'Did I get it right?' I asked anxiously. When he had assured me that I did, I relaxed and picked up another line of questions. 'My mother said you worked at the hospital. Are you a doctor?' I asked.

'No, I'm a nurse,' he answered.

'A nurse? But you're a _boy_.' I'd never heard of such a thing before.

'So?' he asked, raising an eyebrow and taking a bite of his sandwich.

I opened my mouth to reply, then stopped. Put to it, I couldn't actually think of a reason why he shouldn't be a nurse. I frowned. 'I guess I've just never seen a boy nurse before,' I said at last.

'Just because you've never seen something doesn't mean it doesn't exist,' he replied.

My frown vanished as I considered this. The more I thought about it, the more I was struck by the wisdom of it. It's funny in hindsight how such a simple statement seemed so earth-shattering at the time, but at that moment I realized that the world was so much bigger than what I knew. It was a little scary, but terribly exciting. I nodded as I let it sink in. 'You know, you're very smart,' I said.

'Thank you,' he said with a smile.

I sat down across from him and took off again, asking questions about the hospital and what it was he did as a nurse, and I probably ate a few of his French fries. (My mother was right—bless Mr. Williams, he was ever so patient.)

I looked forward to him coming in every day after that. He was my only customer, which is probably why my mother let me sit and talk to him so much. (Years later, I was embarrassed to find out that she had asked him on that first day if I was bothering him and offered to keep me in the kitchen if he wanted to eat in peace. Of course, he said he didn't mind.) On days when he was off from work and didn't come in, I washed dishes in the kitchen. I'm not sure quite why it was that I took such a liking to him. I think it was because he took me seriously enough to have a proper conversation—he listened and remembered what I told him, and outside of parents and teachers, there are so few adults who pay that sort of attention to you when you're that age. And I've always remembered his eyes. Mr. Williams had very kind eyes.

Summer drew to an end, and autumn blew in with the promise of the return of the school year. I had always loved school—I could ask all the questions I wanted—I was even encouraged to!—and this year was even more exciting, as entering the fifth grade meant a move to the middle school. It was farther from my house than the elementary school, and I would get to ride the bus. The week before school started, however, I came across a dilemma.

'Is something bothering you, Gracie?' Mr. Williams asked me one day at lunch. 'You've been awfully quiet today.'

'I've been thinking,' I said seriously.

'I see.' He nodded solemnly. 'What about?'

'Well, I've been thinking about you,' I told him.

'Me?' He seemed surprised.

'Mm-hmm,' I nodded. 'See, I'm going back to school next week, and you won't have anybody to bring you your lunch.' I'd become so used to my role as a waitress that it hadn't occurred to me that a grown man would be entirely capable of getting food without my help.

He blinked in surprise, and then smiled. "Gracie, are you worried about me?' He looked like he might be trying not to laugh.

'Yes,' I said. I wrinkled my nose. 'I'm being silly, aren't I?'

This time he did laugh. 'I think you're being very sweet,' he replied. 'I'll just have to see about getting someone else to look after me during the week, and I'll see you on Saturdays. How does that sound?'

'Okay,' I said. I considered, running through a mental list of people who worked in the restaurant. 'I'll talk to Vera and tell her to keep an eye out for you. She's pretty good.' The small problems in one's life do seem so much more serious when one is nine years old.

'If you say so,' he said with a grin.

I didn't see him as often after that, but he was there on most Saturdays and was always willing to listen as I chattered away about all the new and exciting things going on at school. He told me stories too—usually things about the hospital, or about England, and once or twice there were some fantastic stories he made up about space aliens.

There was one day not long before Christmas when he was telling me another hospital story. Those were my favourite, and I was captivated as always, but something struck me in the middle of it. I felt I had to tell him at once or else I never would, and so I did something I'd never done before. I interrupted him.

'Can I tell you a secret?' I asked abruptly. He looked surprised to be interrupted, but he nodded. 'You know why I like hearing your hospital stories so much?'

'Why?'

I drew in a deep breath, leaned across the table and whispered, 'When I grow up, I want to be a doctor.' I sat back, looking very serious. I'd never told anyone that before, but I felt that Mr. Williams was safe. He could be trusted with that information.

He looked at me across the table, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. 'Why is that a secret?' he asked.

'Well, 'cause…' I sighed. I didn't really want to have to explain it. He was a grown-up—he was supposed to smart enough to figure it out. 'I know I can't _really_ be a doctor. If people knew about it, they'd say I was being silly. But I know you won't laugh at me or anything, so I wanted to tell you.'

'And why can't you really be a doctor?' he asked me, folding his hands together on the table.

''Cause I'm a girl,' I sighed. 'Girls can't be doctors.'

'Who told you that?' he asked. He sounded…well, he sounded like he was trying _not_ to sound upset, and that worried me a little bit. Mr. Williams was always so nice—I hadn't thought he'd get upset about anything.

'Everybody,' I shrugged. I frowned, remembering. 'There was one time I was playing doctor with my cousin Ben, and my grandma said I was doing it wrong, that I should be the nurse and he should be the doctor. And that's what you always see on tv and stuff, isn't it? A boy doctor with a girl nurse helping him out.'

'Well, if I'm a man and I'm a nurse, why can't you be a girl and be a doctor?' he asked reasonably.

I thought about this. He had a point, but…'But you're different,' I told him. 'You're special, and if you wanted to, you _could_ be a doctor. But it's like being a policeman, you know? Or a fireman or an astronaut—it's a boy's job.' That was just the way of things. I sighed and leaned against the table. 'I just think it would be a cool job, is all.'

He looked at me for a long moment. 'You're right,' he said at last. 'You couldn't ever be a doctor.' I sat up, shocked. Maybe I couldn't be a doctor, but for him to say it like that was just mean. 'You don't wear a bow tie,' he finished.

I stared at him. I felt like I was missing something. 'That doesn't make any sense,' I said at last.

'That's my reason why you can't be a doctor,' he said, returning his attention to his lunch.

I made a face. 'That's a stupid reason.'

He looked back up. 'It's not any more stupid than your reason.'

He was looking at me carefully, like he was waiting to see if I would figure something out. 'So,' I began slowly. 'You're saying a girl _can_ be a doctor?' He nodded. 'But everybody says—'

This time, he interrupted me. 'People say stupid things sometimes. I mean, I just said you couldn't be a doctor because you don't have a bow tie, and I think we can both agree how stupid that is.' I nodded and he went on. 'Just because lots of people say something, it doesn't mean they're right. I've met policewomen and firewomen and I even know a couple of women who've been to space.' He smiled here as if enjoying some secret joke, but did not elaborate. 'The point is, Gracie,' he said, folding his arms on the table and staring me seriously in the eye. 'There's not girls' jobs and boys' jobs—there's just jobs. And at some point in history, girls have done them all and boys have done them all. If you want to grow up and be a doctor, then you do it, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.'

I smiled. 'You really think I can be a doctor?'

He smiled back. 'I really do,' he said sincerely.

It's amazing sometimes how quickly such a hard-held opinion can change. Suddenly, I believed that I really could grow up to be a doctor, because Mr. Williams said I could. He'd never lied to me before, which made his word as good as fact from where I stood. I started sharing my dream with more people after that and was surprised to see how many of them thought it was just fine. Really, the only people who said otherwise were a few of the boys from school, and who cared what they thought?

On Christmas Eve, we were getting ready to close up after lunch for the holidays. Mr. Williams was leaving, and I was clearing off his table when he stopped at the door. 'Oh, I almost forgot! I've got something for you, Gracie,' he said. He patted absently at his coat pockets, searching. 'Now where…ah! Here it is.' He held out a flat, plain-looking black box. 'Merry Christmas.'

I took it carefully and studied it. It offered no clue as to what was inside, and I wanted to shake it to conduct a proper investigation, but I thought that might be rude. 'Do I have to wait for Christmas to open it?'

He smiled. 'You can open it now, if you like.'

I grinned and quickly took off the lid. My jaw dropped. Nestled inside was a stethoscope. Not a toy, but a real one, with shiny metal arms that sparkled under the overhead lights.

'I got it for you at the hospital,' he explained. 'I thought—'

He got no further as I nearly bowled him over flinging my arms around his waist. It was the best present I had ever gotten, and it would be years before I received anything else that made that sort of impact. I hugged him tightly, hoping it would convey how grateful I was because a 'thank you' just wasn't good enough. He patted me on the back and I pulled away, staring down at the box I still clutched in my hand. 'Thank you so much,' I managed in an awed whisper.

'You're welcome,' he replied, smiling broadly. 'If you're going to be a doctor one day, you're going to need one. Merry Christmas,' he said again before ruffling my hair affectionately and heading out the door. I remained by the door, staring in awe at my gift until my mother called me to finish the dishes, snapping me back to the present. I ran up and showed her what he had given me, and she looked at it in surprise for a moment before smiling and agreeing that Mr. Williams was a very nice old man indeed.

It embarrasses me to admit this (particularly to you), but as time went on, I rather thought I would like to marry Mr. Williams some day. That he was sixty-six and I was nine did not strike me as problematic—you know how little girls can be. You can imagine my surprise, therefore, when one spring day he came in for lunch and you came with him. He introduced me as 'my friend, Gracie,' and my heart swelled with pride to be awarded such an honor. You asked how I was enjoying my stethoscope and said you thought it was brilliant that I wanted to be a doctor. My mother wouldn't let me linger after I brought your food out, saying I could at least let the poor man eat in peace with his wife.

I watched the two of you from the counter and decided I didn't mind that Mr. Williams was already married, because he had someone nice like you. The two of you looked so happy together—the way you talked and laughed, and the way your hand rested on his arm. I thought to myself that if my father had ever come home from Vietnam, it was nice to think that he and my mother would have been like that when they got old.

I don't remember you coming into the restaurant again, but I asked about you several times after that. He told me more about you and about your son, told me that you wrote books and that you had come from Scotland, which was why you talked differently than he did. For some reason, I found your being from Scotland much more interesting than his being from England—I'd heard of the Loch Ness monster, and Scotland just sounded so much more exotic.

Time went on much the same after that. Summer came around again, and I was back to working every day in the deli. My mother let me wait more tables now, so I wasn't as free to visit with Mr. Williams, but I always made sure to take at least a few minutes to sit down and talk. We talked about all sorts of things, my school and his family, what sort of books I was reading and the kinds of people he met at the hospital. And he always told such good stories! He seemed to know so much about so many things—when school came around again he was always willing to give me a hand with my homework. He used to quiz me on biology, and it was amazing to listen to him talk about history—as much as he knew, you would have thought he was there!

I still worked most afternoons and weekends in the restaurant, but my studies became more important to me as I got older. My mother knew this, and ever since I'd told her about my wanting to be a doctor, she'd supported me, so she made sure I got plenty of time to study. When I was fifteen, she even made sure I had some days off to volunteer at the hospital. There used to be a program there where older high school students could come and observe and help out a little, and in return we would get school credit and good recommendation letters to college if we did well. (Not that the work we did was very exciting—cleaning and carrying and a bit of record-keeping—all of it checked and double-checked by the medical staff.) It was a difficult program to get into, but when I went in to drop off my application, the doctor in charge of the program looked it over and said, 'Ah, so you're the girl Williams told me about. He mentioned you'd be coming by. I'll still have to look over this,' he said, indicating the application. 'But you come highly recommended. I shouldn't think you'd have any trouble getting in.' And I didn't.

Oh, I enjoyed my work at the hospital immensely! I learned so much, asked so many questions, and was always eager to talk over it with Mr. Williams. I certainly wasn't as chatty as I had been when I was nine, but I still talked his ear off. My mother—though very proud of me—did find my enthusiasm tiring at times, but if Mr. Williams did, he never let on. He was always encouraging, always willing to listen, and always had good advice.

Perhaps because Mr. Williams was already an older man when I met him, I failed to notice that as I was growing up, he was getting older too. I was aware that he was an old man, but never gave it much thought beyond that, and it surprised me very much when he told me one day that he was going to be retiring. I realize now that by this point he was well into his seventies and probably could have retired much earlier, but he said he enjoyed helping people and so he'd stuck around. I was sad to think he'd be leaving, but he smiled and promised to come by every now and then to visit, and he did.

I lost touch when I went away for college—I moved to San Francisco, and haven't been home to New York nearly as often as I or my mother would like. I made sure to take along the stethoscope he gave me all those years ago, banged up and tarnished as it was by that point. I even took it to medical school with me later, and right now it's hanging up in my locker at the hospital. That's what I was originally going to write about. I've finished with school, and started on my first year of residency in the Walker General Hospital cardiology department. I thought…I thought Mr. Williams would have liked to know that I made it. I was even going to send a picture. But then my mother called—I had asked her if she could find his address for me—she called and told me that he had passed away. I argued with myself for a while over whether I should send you this or not, which is why my letter is so late in coming. I didn't want to stir up any more pain, but I thought you might like to know about a kind thing your husband did and the difference it made it a little girl's life. I shall never forget him.

Yours in sympathy,

Doctor Grace Holloway"

Tony's voice shook a little as he read the last paragraph. He looked up at his mother and she sighed and closed her eyes, tears dripping silently from their corners. "Oh, Rory," she whispered. Her chest ached, and she felt brilliantly happy and horribly sad all at once. She opened her eyes and smiled through her tears as she looked back at her son. "That was…" Her voice caught.

"That was just like Dad, wasn't it?" Tony replied, managing a watery smile of his own.

"Yes," Amy agreed softly. "Yes it was." She reached out to take the letter from him, and something slipped out from between the pages. She picked it up and looked at it—it was a photograph of a young woman with red hair, probably about twenty-five years old, standing in a doctor's coat in front of a hospital entrance and grinning proudly. On the back were the words 'Looks like you were right—being a doctor can be a girl's job! Thanks for everything,' written in the same graceful handwriting as the rest of the letter. Amy looked down at the photograph for a long minute before setting it carefully on top of the letter. "I'm going to have to find a frame to put that in. Your father would have liked to have seen that."

Her voice had started to waver, and Tony got up and came around the table to put his arms around her. She held on tightly to her son and allowed herself to cry. Oh, Rory. Tony was right—that was so very like him. Dr. Holloway's letter had warmed her heart, and she wondered now how many more people like that were out there somewhere, people who were happier because Rory had passed through their lives with the loving heart behind the words she'd heard him say so often—'I'm a nurse. Let me help.'


End file.
